{"id":183,"date":"2015-03-01T21:55:02","date_gmt":"2015-03-02T02:55:02","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/?p=183"},"modified":"2015-03-02T14:14:21","modified_gmt":"2015-03-02T19:14:21","slug":"egoless","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/?p=183","title":{"rendered":"Egoless"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Screen<\/a><\/p>\n

Likely grade 10, perhaps 11. Sitting on the edge of my parents\u2019 bed, door closed, using the \u2018private\u2019 phone. The ivory one that did its best to match the brocade bed spread; and distinguished it from its black companion in the busy kitchen. The call likely didn\u2019t last very long, extended only by the awkward, adolescent silences. Angie had accepted my\u00a0 tentative and self-conscious invitation of a date and, enough accomplished on call one, I\u2019d signed off with the promise of a contact in the few days following with details. As much surprised as cheered by her response, I marveled a bit at what passed for teenaged enthusiasm on her end of the conversation. She wasn\u2019t the most attractive girl in the class. But still this had definitely been easier than expected as I\u2019d rehearsed my dialogue before dialing. Call two: \u2018Oh. I thought you were Larry.\u2019\u00a0 \u2018No, I\u2019m David.\u2019 And that was that.<\/p>\n

Not sure if there\u2019s a best before date for one\u2019s ego.\u00a0 A number of direct hits that the self tolerates and from which it, phoenix-like, will rebuild from the ashes of the moment \u2014 with the usual support from well meaning parents and such \u2014 before it simply shrugs and calls it a day. Mid-adolescence morphed into the university years.\u00a0 A putting behind of my small, southern Ontario town and its associated coming of age pains (along with Angie, of course); and enough validation to keep said ego afloat in the meantime. Various identities took shape and thrived \u2014 largely. The parent, the practitioner, the runner, the mentor, the partner. Time spent aging in the barrel seemed to vary. But eventually they were all ready to be bottled. People seemed to listen. And, with age and a certain reputation for crustiness, even defer (or duck).<\/p>\n

There is, however, an arc. You\u2019ll know the one. It\u2019s the function that describes most everything. It starts low, builds to a peak. . . then descends, sometimes gradually, sometimes a little more precipitously. In the parlance it\u2019s dubbed the \u2018inverted U\u2019. And it\u2019s universal. . . and inevitable.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s difficult to say when I began to feel less resilient, less substantial. Perhaps scurrying across the cobblestones of Venice, vainly attempting to catch a train to the middle of nowhere. And falling twice. Time was when such a tumble would have called for a shoulder roll \u2014 and back on one\u2019s feet. Nothing broken (this time) \u2014 but the damage ran deeper than the scuffed elbow. Or it could have been that Sunday morning \u2018run\u2019, mercifully out of sight of most, on the nature trails by the river. The moment when the belief that the two intervening decades of \u2018staying fit in other ways\u2019 was put to the test \u2014 and failed. The shuffle that passed for a stride was hard to rationalize. Harder still to ignore.<\/p>\n

The universe can be a relentless old thing. Never content to rest at one or two reminders of which side of that \u2018U\u2019 one is occupying, the messages continued to arrive \u2014 usually unbidden, certainly un-welcomed. Following a challenging ten days cycling in the mountains and feeling that, to quote a younger member of the group (that would be anyone<\/i> else), \u2018I\u2019d done well \u2014\u00a0 for someone my age\u2019, I was particularly unnerved by the \u2018Venice experience\u2019. Old, out of shape guys in Tilly hats trip on pebbles. Not me.<\/p>\n

And so hatched a resolve to address the long-neglected \u2018upper body fitness\u2019 (no doubt the villain) at the local Goodlife. Spin class success and a serviceable level of cardio fitness aside, truth be told, I\u2019d become a \u2018one trick pony\u2019 \u2014 without even realizing it. The fantastic array of hyper-specialized machines, whatever their expressed purpose, is even more adept at finding one\u2019s achilles heel \u2026 and bicep, and quad, and. . . Who knew? Nothing worked as expected. The defining truth: tipping over, mid split-squat and feeling every inch a turtle rolled onto its shell. No darkened streets or shaded trails to mask the event this time. No cobblestoned culprits. Just a warehouse full of fellow \u2018Goodlifers\u2019 to mark the moment.<\/p>\n

With physical \u2018slippage\u2019 so come the reminders of one\u2019s level of relevance in other domains. Perhaps prophetically, we had decided to downsize in recent months, when the \u2018little bungalow around the corner\u2019 came up for sale \u2014 and some coincident interest was expressed in the home from which we\u2019d sworn previously to leave feet first. Offering up for public appraisal the domicile shaped and stamped with one\u2019s taste and identity is a humbling exercise, not for the faint of heart (and certainly not for one mid-self examination on other fronts). Gone (evidently) are the days of a few quick Brownie Instamatic shots in the local weekly. Past too is the era of shoveling the snow, cleaning up after the dogs \u2014 inside and out \u2014 and making sure most of the dishes are out of the sink. Then list. Or even in the reverse order!<\/p>\n

Multi-media \u2018exposure\u2019, with its overhead drone shots, video of every<\/i> room, even the ones no one was ever<\/i> intended to see, and descriptive text so flowery that the perfumed smell lingers for days put one on display for all the world to scrutinize \u2014 and judge. Staging is now de rigueur; with its clear (oh, so clear) subtext that one\u2019s furniture is frumpy, one\u2019s art collection is just a small step up (maybe) from superhero posters and Kleenex reprints, and one\u2019s color choices are, well, just so \u2018last year\u2019 \u2026 or century. Lose what\u2019s made a home yours, euphemistically described as \u2018neutralizing\u2019. Small solace that the exercise is to allow the potential buyer to \u2018imprint on a blank canvas\u2019. The final bits of self are shipped out to the storage locker, displaced by tasteful rentals. And this is all before the \u2018appraisers\u2019 plunk a bargain basement sticker price on this final bastion of who you are.<\/p>\n

So maybe Erikson had it right. Stage Eight (of eight!) is about, in the man\u2019s own label, ego integrity, <\/i>the \u2018post-narcissistic love of the ego\u2019, a time of reflection (not competition or self-aggrandizement or acquisitiveness or comparisons) and making sense of what is \u2014 not despairing of what is no longer; all that stuff on the other side of the \u2018U\u2019. And \u2018downsizing\u2019, in a completely different tradition, has this egoless state (Sannyasa<\/i>, if you\u2019re interested) pared down to the absolute essentials: a pot, a flask, sandals, trousers, a blanket, and a staff. How good is this. I get to have a place to pee, keep my single malt, my Birks, my Levis, and my four season sleeping bag \u2014 and even a cane, as I wobble across Piazza San Marco!<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Likely grade 10, perhaps 11. Sitting on the edge of my parents\u2019 bed, door closed, using the \u2018private\u2019 phone. The ivory one that did its best to match the brocade bed spread; and distinguished it from its black companion in the busy kitchen. The call likely didn\u2019t last very long, extended only by the awkward, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[1],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/183"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=183"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/183\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":186,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/183\/revisions\/186"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=183"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=183"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=183"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}